


The Science of Massage

by Smirkdoctor (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John is done for, M/M, THOSE HANDS, Unilock, can you even imagine?!, massagelock, sherlock the masseur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 06:55:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13161627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Smirkdoctor
Summary: John Watson has developed a tradition of celebrating the end of each semester with a relaxing massage. But when his usual masseur isn't available and he contacts Sherlock Holmes, relaxation quickly becomes the last thing on his mind.





	The Science of Massage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [songlin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/gifts), [fortunatelykeendetective](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortunatelykeendetective/gifts).



John Watson rolled his shoulders, bringing his hands up to knead at the tight pressure that had been building up over the past two weeks. Finals always did a number on his mind  _ and _ body, and he’d developed a tradition of getting a massage after his last exam. 

So as he walked out of the chemistry building, settling his overloaded bookbag on his shoulders and wincing, he pulled out his mobile and brought up the website for his favorite day spa. 

He ground his molars together, thinking about how Harry had teased him when he said that was where he was headed as he begged off drinks for tonight.

“A  _ day spa _ , Johnny? What is it, pedicure and a facial?”

“Harry, stop…” John didn’t want to resort to telling her that the real reason he wasn’t coming was her lack of control around alcohol.

“Oh, the  _ other _ kind of day spa, huh? Why don’t you just come out with me?” She was nearly whinging now, “Handsome bloke like you should be able to pull...or at least get some sod to suck you off in the loo.”

John caught an older couple giving them shocked looks and decided it was time to take his coffee to go. “Classy as always, Harriet. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

“Shite!” He stopped mid-stride, staring at the website’s banner “Closed due to illness.” He snapped his phone shut, shoved his hands deep into his back pockets, and began a foot-dragging walk home.

By the time he reached the door, he was desperate enough for stress relief that he was actually considering going out with Harry. If he got drunk quickly, he figured he wouldn’t be embarrassed when she started her usual routine.

“Johnny, what’s the matter?” His flatmate Mike Stamford looked up from his perch on the couch, feet already up, game controller in hand. He pressed pause (a  _ huge _ sign of concern for a uni student) and looked up expectantly, concern writ large on his chubby face.

John allowed the bag to fall from his shoulders and rested his forehead against the flat’s door. “It’s stupid. I just always get a massage after finals, and my place is closed today…” he heaved a great sigh and turned back towards Mike, who was on his feet and headed to his bedroom.

“Just a sec, mate. I might have just the thing.” 

John followed, leaning in another doorway as Mike picked his way over his disastrously cluttered desk. Finally, he snatched up a business card, whirling around and placing it in John’s hand.

“Sherlock Holmes, Evidence-Based Masseur?” John’s eyebrows drew down as he tried to figure if Mike was taking the piss right now.

But there was a smile on his ruddy cheeks and he shrugged, “I’ve never called, but some bloke in my biostats course said it was the best massage he’d ever had...Victor Trevor is his name.”

“Well, I guess it couldn’t hurt to see if he’s got an appointment this afternoon.” John shrugged and pulled his mobile out, quickly dialing the number listed. 

The call picked up after half a ring and a deep-as-sin but bored-sounding voice spoke. “Science of Massage, this is Sherlock Holmes.”

John’s mind short-circuited at the sound of that voice.

“Is there a purpose to this call?” The voice sounded angry now, “Or did someone put you up to it? ‘For a good time, call the  _ freak _ …’” He gusted an angry sigh and John rushed to keep him from hanging up.

“No, nothing like that, mate.” John cringed. “A friend gave me your card because I always get wound up during finals, I tie myself into knots. I need someone...some _ thing,  _ I mean...to, umm... release the tension.”

A second passed before the hesitant response. “Alright.”

John sighed, relieved. “So you have an appointment today?”

“Yes, I can come immediately.”

“Wait...what? You’d come  _ here _ ?” John looked around his messy flat.

“Don’t be tedious, John. I don’t care about the state of your dwelling. However, I’m not licensed as a massage therapist, so I don’t have an office. Besides, I often find that clients are only able to  _ completely _ let go in familiar surroundings.”

John knew this last exchange should have set off alarms. How did he know his name? Was it even legal to purchase an unlicensed massage? But somehow he wasn’t concerned, only excited.

“I can be there in thirty minutes, if that’s convenient.”

“Ummmmm…” John glanced at Mike.

“If it’s inconvenient, I’ll be there anyway.” And the call disconnected.

 

*~*~*

 

John bustled around the flat, speed-cleaning the detritus of two uni-aged men as well as possible. He’s bribed Mike to go play his game with their neighbors, and he very much hoped that this massage would be worth the cost of a week’s worth of pints.

He was rushing from his room to the hamper in the bathroom, dirty pants and socks in a bunch, when he heard a knock. He finished his trip, dropping the laundry in the wicker container and slamming the lid, then turned back toward the door.

And all but collided with a pale, skinny man who was a good half foot taller than himself. He let out a yelp and staggered backward, knocking over the laundry bin and sending his dirty boxers flying across the bathroom floor. John landed on the toilet which-- thank God-- had been left in the lid-down position. He raised his hands in the universal “I’m unarmed, please don’t hurt me” gesture and tried to catch his breath.

The other man raised a regal eyebrow as he took in the scene. “I’ll set up my table in your bedroom, then?” And he walked off in that direction.

John knit his eyebrows together, jumping to his feet to trail behind. “I gather you’re Sherlock Holmes?”

“It would appear so,” the deep voice rumbled as its owner unfolded a waist-high padded table then dusted off his hands. “Do you have an extra sheet set?”

Although John was physically in the room with Sherlock, he was far from catching up mentally. “How exactly did you get in here?”

“The locks on these doors are a laughable excuse for a security measure, but I do appreciate the practice.” He turned to look at his client again, and John’s breath caught at the color of his eyes. It was beautiful, and John felt like he could spend a lifetime trying to describe it and still not do it justice. He let his gaze wander over porcelain skin, well-cut cheekbones, and a delicately pink set of well-shaped lips.

He didn’t realize he was staring at Sherlock’s lips until he saw them smirk, then John darted his gaze back up to re-establish eye contact. There was a bit of mirth and a lot of shrewdness on display there.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Well, if  _ that’s _ done, perhaps we can move to the matter at hand.” He patted the table, nodded, and walked to John’s closet, flinging the doors wide, extracting the extra fitted sheet, and draping it over his arm. “Is this it, then? I suppose we can make do.” He added a pillowcase to the pile and began to dress the massage table.

John shook himself out of his daze. “Why do you need  _ my _ sheets?”

Sherlock did not look up from his task, “This tends to be a bit of a messy endeavor, and I don’t fancy having Mrs. Hudson do large quantities of... _ questionable _ laundry.” He looked up at the end of this statement and smirked again.

“Ummmm….” John watched as Sherlock finished with the sheet. He supposed that made sense. Massage oil had to make things a bit sticky. But what was the pillowcase supposed to…?

_ Oh _ . He felt warmth hit his cheeks and swallowed. Sherlock stood straight, clasping hands behind his back as he whisked out of the room. “I’ll leave you to change. Everything off, please. We’ll start face down.”

John looked at the table, the pillowcase apparently the only drape he would get, and gusted out a deep breath.

A minutes later, he lay shivering on the table, the pillowcase barely covering his bum. “This has to be the craziest thing I’ve ever done,” John muttered into the face cushion as the door swung open.

“And you just sat for a pharmacology exam without even purchasing the textbook.” Sherlock replied over the squeaking wheels of the flat’s space heater. 

John snorted and decided it probably wasn’t worth asking how Sherlock knew that about him. He settled in for his massage, hoping the man’s skills were as good as his frankly supernatural intuition...or whatever this was.

“Any skin sensitivities?” Sherlock rested his hand on John’s shoulder, making him jump at the electric zing of awareness it sent through him. Sherlock didn’t wait out the pause, instead pushing on, “No, of course not. If you did, you wouldn’t use such hideously-scented, cheap fabric softener. Although…”

Sherlock picked up his left wrist, and John suppressed a shiver at the feeling of long, calloused fingers running along the back of his hand. 

“Yes, based on the mild redness around your metacarpal-phalangeal joints, where the fit of your exam gloves are tightest, it would appear that you are developing a latex allergy.” He released the hand, laying it next to John’s body again. “A bit inconvenient for a student of medicine, but it is what it is.”

John lifted off the pillow a bit and turned toward the voice. “Is there a point to all this?”

“Expert practitioners of any skill will tell you that knowledge of your client is key to providing quality service.” Sherlock unceremoniously pushed John’s head back down into the cushion then ran both hands down his neck and spread palms over his shoulders. 

“For example:  _ you _ are a twenty year old uni student in his second year of study. When you aren’t bent over a desk studying…” Sherlock used the pads of his thumbs to draw small circles of deep pressure down the tight muscles of his neck. John moaned into the table and Sherlock continued, “...you’re playing rugby, which isn’t doing your injured shoulder any good.” 

He ran his fingers along the top of John’s bad shoulder before digging them into a tender knot of muscle. Within seconds, John felt the tension release, the sharpness of the pain fading away.

“You’ve also got considerable muscle tension in your lower back, likely from poor stretching after practices and matches.” Another moan slipped out as Sherlock applied pressure laterally along his thoracolumbar fascia. John felt like he was melting into calm oblivion.

That is, until Sherlock laid one large palm across the top of each of John’s thighs, his thumbs caressing the border between leg and buttock. John involuntarily pushed his pelvis into the table as he clenched his gluteal muscles, and he felt the slightest frisson of arousal settle low in his belly. 

This could be dangerous.

“Mmmmmmmm. Your lower body musculature is  _ quite _ impressive.” Sherlock slid warm hands just barely under the edge of the pillowcase, fluttering fingertips along the bottom of John’s cheeks. He turned his face to allow a gasped breath. He could feel his cock hardening with every second of continued contact between Sherlock’s hand and his body, and the room was no longer the least bit cold. 

Sherlock moved those hands to grasp the base of John’s skull, his fingers so long they stretched almost to his chin. Using those magical thumbs, he worked to loosen the tensed muscles of John’s jaw before gently turning his head and settling it back into its padded cocoon. 

He moved back to the shoulders and began the massage proper, leaning in to whisper in John’s ear, “Now just relax.”

 

*~*~*

 

“Do you mind if I make one more observation?” That sinful voice broke through the haze of semi-wakefulness into which John had fallen once Sherlock began work on his upper back. He didn’t know how he’d lost track of those wonderful (amazing,  _ unbelievable _ ) hands, but they were now at about knee level, and beginning to advance up his thighs.

John turned his head and laughed, “If I said yes, would that stop you?”

He swore he saw the glimmer of a tiny smile cross the impassive face of his masseur. “Probably not,” Sherlock admitted, biting his lower lip to hold back a laugh. The image went straight to John’s cock, which he was surprised to realize was still fully erect.

“Well, then.” John prompted, propping himself on his elbows to watch a slight blush grace Sherlock’s handsome face. “Tell me.” 

The man’s professional detachment was obviously being tested, and John preened internally to think that he could have such an effect. Sherlock’s eyes were glued to the swells of John’s arse under its thin cotton covering. Seeing this, John clenched quickly, causing the tissue to jiggle slightly. 

Sherlock’s jaw dropped open and he swallowed, an audible click echoing in the heavy silence of the room. He cleared his throat and he attempted to continue with his observations, his voice cracking slightly, eyes still fixed on John’s posterior.

“If you’ll forgive me saying so, it’s quite obvious…” He paused and shook his head. “I mean...it’s not because of your looks. Or your physique…” Another swallow. “If I had to guess...and I  _ hate _ guessing...I would have to say you’re incredibly dedicated to your studies…”

John watched the other man stutter and turn ever darker shades of red. He seemed in danger of giving up, retreating into his own head or backing out of the room. John didn’t want that at all. He wanted Sherlock here, with him, even if he was paying for his attention.

“Sherlock.”

The other man’s head snapped up at John’s rugby captain voice.

“Just make your impressive observation so we can get on with things.” Sherlock still seemed hesitant, so John called up his most charming smile.

Sherlock Holmes swallowed one last time, took a deep breath and blurted, “Based on the tension in your upper thighs and buttocks, you haven’t orgasmed in at least a week, and it’s likely been upwards of two months since you engaged in partnered intercourse.”

John felt his cheeks flush, his eyes threatening to pop out of their sockets. Sherlock’s eyes, meanwhile had dropped back to their previous area of focus, and his hand was now hovering a scant two inches above John’s right buttock. He felt his cock twitch. “Wha...I...how…?”

Sherlock lowered his palm to cup John’s arsecheek, moving it gently in small circles, pulling a gasp from his client.

“There is a technique that’s rumoured to relieve congestion in the pelvic area.” Sherlock seemed hypnotized by his right hand’s motion, and brought his other up to the left side. He applied pressure outward to spread the cheeks ever so slightly. “I don’t offer it to most clients, as it’s quite...invasive.” 

John’s breath came out in a hiss and Sherlock lifted his gaze to John’s face. None of the strange pale eye color remained, Sherlock’s pupils were dilated so wide. John felt the pressure of Sherlock’s index finger slipping into the crevice of his arse and dropped his face back into the cradle. 

“Oh  _ god _ yes.”

“Well, then.” Sherlock withdrew his hands and John bit back a sob at the loss. “Turn onto your back and relax your legs apart.”

 

*~*~*

 

It took lots of lube, a medical-grade prostate massager, and some serious relaxation exercises, but over the next ten minutes, John managed to overcome a rather large sexuality crisis. But he thought, as Sherlock pressed the curved toy in applied pressure upward, that the reward was well worth his efforts.

As Sherlock slid the device back and forth over the sensitive area deep inside him, John’s hips began to rock in tiny thrusts. The movement was entirely outside his control, and he felt the pillowcase slide off. Sherlock gasped and John glanced toward him, locking gazes with the other man just as a glistening pink tongue came out to lick at those gloriously shaped lips.

“Ohhhhhh goddddddd,” John moaned, throwing his head back on the pillow and moving his hips in quick, tightening circles.

“Not quite,” Sherlock said through a smile, and twisted the toy  _ just so _ .

And that was it. John was  _ gone _ . An orgasm that felt like it originated deep within his pelvis had his back bowing nearly in half as he came, shaft untouched. Seemingly endless amounts of semen painted his torso all the way to his upper chest, and his mouth locked open in a silent scream. He blinked in a frantic effort to clear his blurred vision, and felt his chest clench as he saw his come streak across Sherlock’s sharp cheekbone. Jesus  _ Christ _ , that was the hottest thing he’d ever seen.

As he thawed from the rictus of pleasure, John stared at the ceiling, pulled in two deep, panting breaths, then sat up and yanked Sherlock to him for a blazing kiss. “That…” he panted, “was amazing.”

“Mmmmmm,” Sherlock responded against his lips. “Wait until you see what I can do with my  _ fingers _ .”

**Author's Note:**

> The first half of this story was originally posted in sections as part of the December ficlet prompt fills, but the idea got away from me. And make no mistake, I'm glad it did. I think I need a cigarette.
> 
> Dedicated to songlin and fortunatelykeendetective for encouraging a plot bunny that hopped right into my head in the middle of a long clinic day.


End file.
